Introducing Pictures of Things and Stuff and Such

Note: My quasi-daily photo widget was being forgotten (eh hem... by me) and started becoming a quasi-monthly photo because I sequestered it in the corner over there. So, starting RIGHT NOW, pictures from my incredibly interesting life will now appear here.

So without further ado: here's what you can buy for a quarter on the Cape: 1) classic novel 2) flyest sunglasses ever.

A Promising Start to the Season , originally uploaded by dangerousk.

Manila and Beige Both Kinda Suck. So Does Chartreuse Though It Hasn’t Personally Offended Me Today.

Oh hai interweb! I’m back for what has turned into my weekly check-in (as opposed to the more frequent check-ins of last year when I was funnier and woke up drunk more often.) I didn't do a blink of work all morning and when I looked at the clock and saw that it was only 10:30, I was all “AHHH!!! CANNOT BE TRUE” but it was. IT WAS.

(On a side note, an ominous manila folder just landed on my desk but I am quite certain it is the only thing I need to accomplish today so I’d better drag it out as long as possible. Besides, if I do it too quickly they might figure out that I’m competent and may give me even MORE things to do. We just can’t have that. There’s nothing worse for boredom than work.)

(Incidentally, that manila folder kept me busy until 2:00. I will now resume blogging but let this be a lesson to the rest of you: don’t trust anything your boss puts on your desk)

I’ve been painfully bored at the office quite frequently over the past few weeks much to Beau’s dismay. When I’m bored, I’m cranky and bitchy and threaten to run away to far away lands (most recently, Europe and Oregon have been popular threats) and I dissolve into tears at inconvenient intervals… like every Monday at 6:45 pm. So, why didn’t I turn to you sooner for comfort? Because I am much like a despondent 7-year-old when I’m bored and my brain is much like the weary but patient Bologna who used to suggest possible activities to keep me entertained while I would respond with a resounding “NO” to each idea of standing on my head in a corner or drawing pictures or reading a book or, in this case, blogging.

As you can see, I’ve been quiet not because I have nothing to say. I’ve been quiet because I’m being difficult and I’m busy moaning “ennui” while I lay prostrate on the floor. Such is the paradoxical nature of my being. But now onward to important things that I’ve been holding back while I stared out windows sighing and writing creepy little haikus about rain!

Remember how Bologna is growing a human life form? The one who had an internet presence before it was even born? Well, it’s not an it anymore. It’s a boy! Bologna has an ultrasound picture of his wing-wang but I can’t post it here because I’m afraid the Authorities will arrest me for kiddie porn and then my sister will have yet another thing to explain to her child about dear Auntie Dangerous K who is slightly off her rocker. In conclusion, Nugget is a he and I won’t tolerate any more gender neutral pronouns here or anywhere else. He’s a fetus, people, not a dog.

Speaking of dogs and excellent transitional subjects, we have a lead on a very promising condo where my future puppy will possibly romp around (yes, that’s right, stretch the credibility of that transition just a little more). Last night we visited it a second time and brought Beau’s father, our unofficial building inspector, who was unable to rip it a new asshole. The condo’s current asshole was built in the 1980s so while it may be covered in beige linoleum, it is, in fact, intact.

Now I have to get back to the sinister manila folder of doom which remains persistently next to me and which I probably summoned this morning by complaining loudly to the universe about being bored, but before I go, I leave you with these potential upcoming blog entry titles:

Earning My Keep, Or, How To Clean Toilets At the Beau Family Cape House

Don’t Get Drunk and Go Swimming In 50° Water

Why Losing Darts To A Gay Man Will Make You Feel Worse About Yourself

Farting Audibly in Harvard Square: Check

Do I Have What It Takes To Play Wingman in a Lesbian Bar for My Office BFF?

If You Pass, I’ll Rotate Your Tires for Free!

Today at work, I was involved in a discussion with the single girls in the office concerning point systems for rating potential mates. I got to thinking about how Beau attained the coveted position of being my boyfriend (coveted like being a fighter pilot: it looks really fun and you get serious street cred for surviving, but actually, if you fuck up, it's really hazardous to your health). While my new office BFF, Krystal Youngblood, has a 5-point system, I determined Beau passed a much more rigorous assessment which was (sadly) culled from actual knowledge gained over years and years of dating complete losers. Here I present to you, in no particular order, Dangerous K’s 22-Point Inspection:

1. Must drink without being a full fledged alcoholic.
2. Must be able to drink me under the table.
3. Must not wear black eye liner
4. Must not write, read, or enjoy dark poetry
5. Must not have British teeth.
6. MUST NOT BE A BARTENDER.
7. Must not be in a band.
8. Must pay own share of rent.
9. Must have an egalitarian point of view concerning housework.
10. Must bathe frequently.
11. Must live in the continental United States; must not need assistance obtaining proper paperwork to do so.
12. Must not exist in a permanent state of couch-surfing.
13. Must participate in communal farts, burps, and nose picking.
14. Must be able to make me laugh at his jokes harder than I laugh at my own.
15. Must not have connections to the mob.
16. Must not be gay.
17. Must not play Dungeons & Dragons.
18. Must not be a vegetarian.
19. Must not listen to Starbucks soundtrack music, NPR, or jazz.
20. Must not expect me to attend cultural events and maintain a façade of maturity.
21. Must not weep during arguments.
22. Must be an excellent cook. Must not judge me when I lick my plate. Must offer his plate for licking as well.

Now for shits and giggles, guess which points the following ex-boyfriends failed (pseudonyms have been expanded on for those in my personal life who may have difficulty determining real names):

Weasely, The Elf Boy: Transitional high school to college boyfriend (Summer 2002 – Summer 2004)
Ho-Train: Abercrombie-esque guy that I permanently broke (Fall 2004? Maybe? Is that right?)
Marilyn Manson: Goth dude from my dorm (The day I broke up with Ho-Train until a month or two later)
Malarkey: Irish delinquent (Summer 2005 - Spring 2006)

Bonus points for identifying the ex (not included on this list – initials only if you know who it is) who failed #15!

**Update for clarification: Each point may apply to multiple listed exes. Some points apply to unlisted exes**

When 3 Miles Really Equals 6

This past weekend marked not just the homecoming of Grasshoppah. It was also the Quatro's very first communal charity event. And it wasn’t even court ordered! We just did it because we care. In our magnanimous way, we combined forces to fight MS by … walking around Boston. Actually, I’m not really sure how that part fought MS, but it did give us an excuse to raise almost $3K for the cause and also to hold up traffic on both sides of the river.

Since Grasshoppah got into town on Saturday and the event wasn’t until Sunday, we had to find a way to entertain ourselves in between. We very responsibly ate a light dinner involving vegan-cheese nachos and gluten-free beer at Other Side Café where it was glaringly obvious that I did not fit in amongst the skinny hipsters who made me feel old (for further proof of the insanity, follow the link to their website. You’ll note that it is a MySpace page. You’ll also note that only 13 year olds and pedophiles use MySpace). I’m also fairly certain I heard a young lady with a lip ring discussing Nietzsche. I know I’ll get a few raised eyebrows for saying this considering my own emo-teen years, but Saturdays aren’t for deep philosophical conversation. They’re for starting bar fights and vomiting in public. Kids these days.

After dinner, we migrated to Lir where several dozen drinks were consumed. Because who thinks getting drunk the night before a 6 mile charity walk is a good idea? This guy. That’s who.

Shockingly enough, we all made it to Harvard Stadium in good spirits the next morning though most were equipped with dark sunglasses and one unnamed participant admitted to being in “rough shape.” The walk commenced amidst a crowd of entirely too chipper do-gooders and a couple of tee-shirt wearing dogs. Except it was really less of a walk and more of a stroll because there were several thousand people trying to promenade along the same path and some of them were in wheelchairs. Which asshole saw no problem passing disabled people on the left with the rest of her team? Still this guy.

Despite my best efforts to divert the herd to the nearest pub or bakery, we remained steadfastly on track (On a marginally related note: somewhere after half a mile, Notorious gave me a piece of vacuum sealed cheddar that she had snagged from the refreshment stand before leaving to shut me up. Thank you for your pocket cheese, Notorious).

After the first loop (which the MS Society claims was 3 miles but I think was probably closer to 4 miles), there was a smaller secondary loop to walk in order to complete the full 6 miles. It was like one of those trick SAT math problems with no solution.

Anyway, after completing oval A, we broke off from the pack of determined good Samaritans and slunk back to the stadium where we were greeted in a noisy, embarrassing fashion by a group of cheerleaders who congratulated us on finishing half the course (OR POSSIBLY MORE THAN HALF, YOU BUNCH OF FUCKING LIARS) and presented us with medals. Which we wore to lunch.

Lunch wasn’t easy to get though. After our exodus, we had to walk from Harvard Stadium to Border Café (a 0.6 mile route according to Google Maps, the leading authority on where stuff is… except my car keys… and my dignity) and then BACK (another 0.6 miles) to my car which was located at Harvard Stadium because I was too cheap to pay for parking a second time in one day. So according to my calculations (yes I have detailed calculations saved to my computer and am willing to show proof if necessary), even IF the route we walked was 3 miles, then we walked 5.6 miles between Saturday and Sunday. And everyone knows that you round up because decimal places are stupid because their not divisible by zero or something.

Tadaa! I walked 6 miles in the fight against MS, got drunk, and ate some vegan cheese though not in that order. Wasn’t it worth waiting all week to hear about it? Stay tuned – I’m heading down to the Dirty Jerz tomorrow morning to visit my knocked up sister and bring her to a liquor store for supplies where I’m hoping we’ll get judgmental looks and I can yell something at an elderly woman like, "Well, maybe YOU shouldn't be drinking on your heart medication? Ever think of THAT?"

The Password Is "Sussudio"

AHAHAHA... HAHA... HA... ahhhhh

Too bad Beau uses the same few passwords for everything he does. I didn't really break into his Facebook account. More like, used the key that he hid under the decorative urn directly to the right of the front door.

Also, please take note of the tab furthest to the right in my browser. Yes, I had to look up how to take a screen shot and no, I didn’t remove that evidence before taking said screen shot. See, I’m not immune to horrible embarrassment via the Internet either!

Happy April Fools Day everyone! Go glue quarters to the sidewalk.

Solutions for the Opposite of Awesome

Can we squeeze in one more blog entry before the end of the month despite having little to say? Yes we can! My site meter suggests I have fans to please and I am all about fan pleasin’. Are you pleased yet? Are you at least temporarily satiated? I know I am.

Now that I’ve set an entirely too chipper tone for this post (which I can do in my wild nihilistic way), here are some updates that actually kind of blow and also the various brilliant ways in which I plan on fixing them:

Problem: Beau and I have seen around 40 houses and haven’t found a single structurally sound home in our price range that isn’t in the ghetto or 40 miles from Boston.

Solution: We finally gave up on Sunday and started looking for condos. Apparently, our budget provides for some pretty pimpin’ places that we’d previously ignored. In exchange for a buffer zone between me and my neighbors, I might get granite countertops or a Jacuzzi to put my little toy boats in or an extraordinarily convenient location.

Problem: Obama hasn’t fixed the economy yet like FOX news promised he would. Half a dozen of my friends or family members have been laid off, taken pay cuts, or at best, had their wages frozen for the foreseeable future.

Solution: I will convince T to let us build log cabins on his family’s land in the boonies where I will have a victory garden and feed chickens and darn socks and pretend to be Daniel Day-Lewis from The Last of The Mohicans until the recession ends.

Problem: There is a disfiguring blemish on my face. I am very sure it is a herpe. Just one. Beau insists that it is a zit and not a cold sore but luckily I am a hypochondriac so I know better.

Solution: Neosporin fixes everything. I have also threatened to remove my herpe and hide it somewhere in Bologna’s house during my impending trip to the Dirty Jerz. She thinks she’ll find it, but she won’t. My herpe is stealth. It doesn’t run around waving flags and screaming. This isn’t a gay pride parade folks.

Problem: I suck at conclusions.

Solution: I will leave my readers hanging with a sentence fragment which is sure to piss some people off but I don’t give a

The Terror and Wonder of Advil PM

Disclaimer: This blog may have been written under the influence of OTC sedatives. If you are the criticizing type, I urge you to stop reading. If you are the criticizing type and continue reading, I urge you to take your complaints and shove them.

At 9pm last night, I was still a cranky girl due to possibly the least eventful work day that I’ve had in the past 3 months. Most of the day was spent complaining to whoever would listen to me and constructing elaborate castles out of office supplies on my desk. At 9 pm I was in such a foul mood that I Advil PM’ed myself to ensure a good night’s sleep instead of one of those fretful, emo-poetry-writing-in-your-head kind of nights. No disturbing little sonnets. That’s a plus for Advil PM.

Normally I can shake my drugs off by the time I need to leave the house in the morning, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. I half shook it off. I was fully capable of driving but I was sedately listening to The Shins on my commute instead of baring my teeth and hollering at minivans. No road rage or sprained middle fingers. That’s another plus for Advil PM.

All this positivity isn’t enough to save me from drifting off to sleep in a more recumbent position than my swivel chair is intended for. From the minute I sat down at the computer, my eyes started drooping. Narcolepsy. Definitely minus one for Advil PM.

I was the first one in the office this morning but now my coworkers are coming in thick and fast and they all want to talk about last night’s American Idol. Can you not see me trying to nap here? Fine, we’ll chat. Unfortunately, though my hooded eyes suggest I am awake, my speech pattern does not and now I’m very sure my peers think I am stoned. Minus another one for Advil PM.

This leaves me with very few options. I could build another Post-It fortress or I could sit here and inanely blog with drool on my chin which is actually the more legitimate looking way to spend my time.